


Sherlock Holmes and the Eye Collector

by meglorraine



Series: No, Really We're Just Living Together [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 10:12:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1978935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meglorraine/pseuds/meglorraine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have a new case. Body found in Bray, head found in the pants drawer of a nonagenarian over 200 miles away 4 hours after the man was last seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> We do not own any characters seen in the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle works or the Steven Moffat works (BBC)  
> This is a FemmeJohn and FemmeLock story.

She was my best friend and I’ll always believe in her.

I wasn’t lying when I said that, but when someone believed to be dead is found to be very not dead, things are a bit awkward for a while.

  
Breaking the news to Lestrade was interesting. Donovan and Anderson were less than pleased to say the least. The rest of England was in an uproar for about a month. The tabloids were ridiculous; there was a theory on how Sherlock had been abducted by an alien named The Doctor.

Sherlock had been alive for about three months, and all was quiet in Apartment 221B Baker Street. Sure Sherlock seemed to act as if nothing had happened. She still practiced her violin, rehearsing classical pieces and composing many of her own, often demanding that I listen for it was a one time only playing of her original work. She certainly still performed the strangest experiments. Usually on the kitchen table, even though I had asked her countless times not to.

**John, I … I’m not good with sentiment, you know that.** Sherlock said in a text message as she was out making a trip to Tesco while I was working on her last case, it was in the editing stages.  
 **You should apologize for your actions** I responded.  
 **How would you apologize for being dead three years? John. I don’t know how.**  
 **Ur a genius. Figure it out.** I was still in a sour mood about the topic.  
 **John. John, when you’re very angry you stop texting properly.** She replied.  
 **JOHN.**  
 **John, PLEASE.**  
 **I have no idea how to apologize. Can’t you just forgive me?**  
 **JOHN.**  
 **JOHN I AM SORRY, ALRIGHT?**  
 **I am sorry I couldn’t warn you. I’m sorry I didn’t contact you. What am I saying? Why am I even sending this?**  
 **John. Please.**  
 **Good job.** I finally replied figuring that she had suffered enough.  
 **Get me my revolver, John.** In a typical Sherlock fashion, she never liked being coerced into doing anything.  
 **Get it yourself. It’s in your room.** I replied. I try not to get her revolver for her.  
 **No, John. You took it away after Mr. Hudson shouted the last time.** Yes I did, and I had no intention of giving it back to her just so she can shoot another smiley face into the wall out of boredom.  
 **Then no.**  
 **Joooohn. I need it.**  
 **No.**  
 **Joooooooohn. I’ll get the milk from Tesco this time, promise.** I checked the fridge and damn, we were out of milk. And eggs.  
 **And the eggs?**  
 **… Only if you promise to wear _those_ on Monday.**  
 **I don’t know what you’re talking about.** I knew exactly what she was talking about. Donovan gave them to me last year as a funny holiday gift and Sherlock took a liking to them.  
 **You know exactly what I’m talking about, John. Am I being too forward? Lestrade and Donovan said this should work…** Of course they did.  
 **And you believed them?**  
 **Never mind, then. Going to get milk.**  
 **And eggs.**  
 **Yes, John. Eggs.**  
 **Good.**  
 **You are facetious to a fault, John.**  
 **How so?**  
 **Never mind. But I’m buying soy milk.** She’s doing this on purpose.  
 **Get 2%**  
 **No.** Oh, now she’s being difficult. Well two can play this game.  
 **No gun, then.**  
 **Already bought it. But I’m glad to see you have my gun.** Damn it.  
 **You won’t be able to get to it.**  
 **Oh, I daresay I will. Coffee can, third stone behind the mantelpiece? You are adorable when you believe yourself sneaky.** Sherlock is adorable when she thinks she can deduce me from Tesco. I’ve lived with her long enough to know to move the gun whenever Mr. Hudson cleans. It was there three days ago.  
 **Wrong.**  
 **Not wrong, I can see the glint of the can from here. You’re also adorable when you lie, John. You should practice more.**  
 **Still wrong. You need to work on your deducing.**  
 **You need to work on your lying. You just moved it to the good teapot we only use when you invite one of your insipid girlfriends over.**  
 **They are not insipid and it’s not in the teapot. Really, Sherl, is it that hard to deduce?**  
 **Quit moving it. It is now dropped behind the stove. You will be fishing it out. And they are, too. The last one worked at an animal shelter and owned 14 cats. Really, John, I don’t know why you insist on dating beneath you.** I did not drop it behind the stove, I hid it there and she must’ve seen it when she was experimenting in the kitchen the other day. That doesn’t mean I had to admit defeat, it wasn’t really her gun.  
 **It is not behind the stove. Come in from the street already. And excuse me; I didn’t know you were an expert at dating.** She was probably going to stay out there until I gave up and said that the gun was behind the stove. I heard Sherlock before I saw her. There is a tell, a squeak in one of the stairs. She was carrying two Tesco bags, one with eggs and one with hopefully not-soy milk.

  
“I don’t need to be an expert to understand that these women are all wrong. And it’s right here.” She said reaching behind the stove. “Thank you very much.” She was trying not to grin.

  
“Look again. That’s not your gun. And who would be the right woman for me, Sherlock?” I said without looking away from the computer screen.

  
“John, I demand you return my revolver. And do I look like a relationship adviser? I only know that they are wrong. I lack sufficient data to give you a more accurate answer.” She said sounding very much fed up with my little game of keep away. She put the eggs, milk, and my gun on the counter.

  
“Your revolver is under your bed. And no, you are as far from a relationship adviser as Lestrade is from solving the case he dropped off earlier that you need to look at.” I saved the case and shut down my computer.

  
“You didn’t tell me there was a case, John! Hand me that folder.” Her hand outstretched and looking like a child on Christmas with a giant pile of presents that somehow had her name on them.

  
“Here you go. And thank you for getting the milk and eggs.” I said handing over the folder and moving to put the eggs and milk in the fridge.

  
“Yes, John, whatever makes you happy, John.” She waved me off too absorbed in the case file to really have heard what I said. “Did you look at this?”

  
“No. I’ve been writing about your last case.”

  
“Oh, forget about that, John! We have a headless man with his head two hundred miles away in a stocking drawer of a nonagenarian – the game’s afoot! Pack your bag, my dear Watson. We’re off first to Cardiff, then to Bray! How do you feel about an Irish Christmas?” She ranted darting from room to room already packing her bag.

  
“Sounds great. But I’m not too excited about Cardiff.” I said heading to my room to pack my bags.

  
“No one’s excited about Cardiff, John, but we’ll only be there a few days. Aren’t stocking drawers your bag?” She continued to ramble as I made sure I had enough clothing and ammunition. Old military habit, but most definitely useful. My habits have saved our necks countless times.

  
“What?” I did not quite hear her while I was going through my weapon locker.

  
“Never mind, John. Hurry up! Oh, grab one of your hideous jumpers if you must, but come on!” She said dashing down the stairs and out the front door, without her own bag.

  
I finished packing as quickly as I could and grabbed her forgotten bag. I locked up the apartment and then found Sherlock trying to call a cab.

  
“Sherlock, you forgot your bag.” I said handing her the bag she hastily packed.

  
“Oh, as if I care, John. Taxi!” she said but took the bag anyway. She likes to pretend that she doesn’t care when I pick up on what she forgot. “Normally you put up more of a fuss. Are you quite alright, John?” She asked waving down a cab.

  
“I’m fine.” I said shifting my bag around so it wasn’t quite as heavy. I looked over at Sherlock and she was looking at me as the cab pulled up.

  
“In you get, John.” She said holding the cab door open for me. “The airport, quick as you can.” She sat down next to me looking rather excited. “With any luck we’ll beat Lestrade there.” She joked.

  
“Hmmm.” Sherlock may have been excited but I had quite a bit on my mind.

  
“What is it, John?” Sherlock’s smile fell.

“Oh. Nothing.” I said, looking out the window of the cab, watching the city pass by.

“I don’t like when you say it’s nothing, John. Last time you said that you had a bomb strapped to your chest.” She stated, as if it was a fact.

“It’s not like that, Sherlock.” I sighed.

“Oh, good. You had nightmares for months the last time. What is it, then?” She pried.

“I said it’s nothing.” I tried to sound reassuring. Sherlock just stared at me and then nodded, probably making deductions in her head.

“Nothing it is, then. Would you like to hear more about the case, John?” She asked, moving on from the previous topic.

“Sure.” I said leaning back in the seat.

“Well, the man – his name is Thomas Mallory – is a finance trader over at the stock exchange. Clearly having an affair with the pool boy behind his wife’s back, look at the tan line. But, anyway, he lives near Cardiff and was driving there to fly out to Bray when witnesses say he vanished out of his vehicle. Found in the hills more than two hundred miles away near Sugarloaf four hours later. Head sloppily detached at the shoulder, took out a chunk of the breast bone. Large blade involved.” She said looking over the case file again.

“So who killed him?” I asked, surely she already has some theories.

“Well, it certainly wasn’t the old woman who fainted when she went to pull out some socks and found Mr. Mallory’s head with her pants.” She said flipping the pages.

“Does she live with anyone? Relatives?” I asked, trying to help in any way that I could.

“No. She has one son, but he’s in India.” She said before hopping out of the cab and running to the ticket counter of the airport. Leaving me with the bags, again. I took the bags and paid the cabbie.

“Oh, thank you John. Plane leaves in fifteen, gate’s on the other side.” She said handing me my ticket before running off towards our gate before I could say anything. I followed Sherlock, with some difficulty seeing as I was carrying the bags and she was darting around people with enviable ease.

We managed to catch the plane, and a short flight later, we landed in Cardiff.

“Where to next?” I asked as we waited for a cab in front of the airport.

“The hotel he was staying in. I want to know if anyone saw a tan, male brunet or a young girl with red braids and a blue jumper.” She said waving down a cab.

“Why those descriptions specifically?” I asked as the cab pulled up. We got in and Sherlock gave the cabbie the address.

“You’ll see. The little girl factors into two of my theories. The young man into four.” She said leaning back into the seat.

At the hotel Sherlock asked for one room with two single beds. I was looking around the lobby out of old military habit while the clerk hunted for the room key.

“What do you see, John?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing. Just an old habit.” I said looking back to Sherlock.

“No, I’m asking. What do you see, John? Observe for me.”

“The man with the newspaper is waiting for his secret lover. Secret because he’s in a hotel. Waiting because he keeps glancing at the clock. Lover because he recently took off his wedding ring, you can see the old tan line on his finger.

Three men sitting together, they’re on a business trip, the briefcases are evidence enough, as are their attire and drink selection.

The woman at the bar, not sure. She’s not married. No evidence that says otherwise. She is dressed up but drinking alone. She’s not sad so she’s not alone because of a break up and she isn’t waiting for anyone, she doesn’t look at the clock

And you are keeping an eye on me because my behavior has not been how it usually is and you are calculating various possible reasons as to why that is. You took a glance at the computer screen behind the desk and looked for any seemingly random yet when explained logical clue to solving this case.” I said, denying that I was hoping that Sherlock would praise me.

“Good, John. You’re getting better. Not to my level, of course, but certainly better than Dimmock or Lestrade. The man who is waiting for his lover took off his ring because he recently divorced his wife – he looks too relieved for the lover to be secret any longer and his shirt is unwashed – he’s been living here for days.  
The two better-dressed business men are pressuring the shabbier one into signing over his share for a large sum of money, and he’ll do it, because his wife or child is ill – look at how he keeps touching his watch and checking his phone.

And the woman is not waiting for anyone because she is accompanying the taller of the businessmen – he has a faint smudge of red on his cheek. I’m guessing she wasn’t cheap.” After all of this time I am still amazed at her ability to deduce like that. Sure I’m used to it, but that doesn’t make it any less amazing.

“I’m going to talk to the man with the newspaper. Give the bags to the bellboy – then join me precisely thirty seconds after he enters the elevator.” She said before dashing off. I sighed and gave the bags to the bellhop and waited about thirty seconds after he entered the elevator. I could hear Sherlock talking as I approached her and the man with the newspaper, “And is that the last you saw – oh, John, dear!” she leaned over and kissed my cheek, whispering sharply, “Play along.” Before returning to the man with the newspaper, “Is that the last you saw him?”

“Yes. ‘E seemed in a ‘urry – ‘e as almos’ sprintin’, wasn’ ‘e? Wotcher, luv.” He said with a wink at me.

“Nice to meet you.” I said taking Sherlock’s hand, “What are we talking about?”

“Oh, the puir man who ‘ad ‘is ‘ead lopped off this mornin’. Damn shame. ‘Ope they catch the bastard what did it.” He said.

“Terribly tragic. Did he have a young girl in his room?” Sherlock asked while I watched the man for anything, anything at all.

“Eh? No, ‘e was alone. On ‘is way ‘ome for the holiday, innit ‘e?”

“Thanks. Have a good day.” Sherlock said as she all but dragged me to the elevator.

“And?” I asked once the doors closed.

“His lover was male. Needed to open him up, went for the sympathy hand. Mr. Mallory … I think this may turn out to be as interesting as the Hound, my dear Watson. Certainly better than the case with the netted birds. Tedious.” Sherlock replied.

“Just don’t test anything on me this time.” I said, for some reason I was still holding her hand. Seeing as Sherlock hadn’t taken her hand back, I tried to not think about how much I liked the weight of her hand in mine.

“No need to, John, unless you’re in the mood to vanish from a speeding car.” She joked as the elevator doors opened. We looked for our room number, but when we found it Sherlock stopped, “John. Don’t open that door.”

“Why?”

“The bellhop would have left the door locked, but the light is still green.” She said tapping the door with her free hand, “He hasn’t left yet. He isn’t a bellhop at all.” I let go of her hand and pulled out my gun, aiming it at the door, ready for anything. “On the count of three, I’m going to open the door. Don’t you dare be in the line of fire when I do, John.” She warned before steadily counting to three and ripping open the door. There was no immediate danger, just a bloody corpse. With a sigh of relief I put my gun away and looked around the room. Being an army doctor has given me more than enough experience with dead bodies and gruesome scenes. I've long gotten over the squeamishness that most people feel in the presence of such a gruesome body, as long as there is no immediate danger to Sherlock or I, I was relatively level headed.

“It seems I was right – he wasn’t a bellhop.” Sherlock said inspecting the blood splatters, which arced out from the prone body in a way that made the murder weapon obvious. Closer inspection of the stains showed that they lead to the window, where they abruptly disappeared. The headless body was dressed in a strange uniform, a pale blue where the blood had not reached. “John … call Lestrade. Give me five minutes, keep people away from the room.” She said crouching next to the body.

I stepped out of the room and pulled out my cell; I kept Sherlock in my view just in case something happened. “Lestrade. Come to the hotel. There’s another body for you … yes, she’s already looking at it.” The Yard was on their way.

“I thought so. John? Come here a moment.” Sherlock called from in the room.

“What do you see?” I asked moving to stand by her and the body.

“Tell me – how do you think the head was removed?” She asked me.

“Large blade, judging by the lacerations and the fact that the spine was cut through.” I said after looking the body over again.

“What kind of large blade? Be specific, John.” Now she just sounded like school teacher trying to get the lesson across to a misbehaving student.

“A sword of some sort. I’d guess a claymore, which isn’t serrated so the murderer would need to have a powerful swing.” I said after quickly reviewing what I knew about swords.

“Excellent, John. The same conclusion I reached. A person who can wield a claymore in this case would be tall and strong, and stronger still, to take the head off in two strokes. Look.” She crouched down next to the body and pointed to the exposed breast bone. “The same chip is missing from Mr. Mallory. Ergo – same killer. He makes two chops – one from the right, which severs the neck, and a shorter one to chop the last bit of muscle. Then he takes the head. Anything else you notice, John?”

“Her stepped in the blood and we should already be out the window chasing him.” I said quickly hopping out of the window and following the trail.

“No, John, he’s long gone. John?” I could hear Sherlock; she was still in the room and hadn’t noticed that I had gone through the window. “JOHN! JOHN, WAIT!” Oh, she noticed. I followed the bloody footprints and ignored Sherlock. “John, I – wait.” She grabbed my wrist, effectively stopping me. “He’s clumsy. He’s overconfident. Unless…” she paused. “This way, John.” She said pulling me down an alley in the opposite direction.  
Sherlock lead me through the alleys of Cardiff, dodging strange looks and cars. We reached a carport, which would look abandoned if not for the traces of blood and rubber tracks. “Someone left very recently. We’re late by …” She bent down and touched the tire tracks “Two minutes. Answer your phone – Lestrade is about to-” my cell phone ringing cut her off.

“Lestrade. No, we aren’t at the hotel anymore. Here’s Sherlock.” I handed the phone to Sherlock.

“Yes.” Sherlock switched the phone to speaker and sounded like she was just sitting in our flat playing on her computer.

“Bloody hell, but you left me a mess. Where are you?” Lestrade said.

“On our way. We almost caught him.” Sherlock replied.

“Couldn’t have done me a favor, eh? Get back here right quick – there’s something I forgot to tell you in the report.”

“Wonderful. Did you hear that, John? He forgot something. What was it you useless imbecile?” Sherlock teased the Lestrade through the phone.

“Keep your pants on. Thomas Mallory – he – His eyes were cut out.” Lestrade audibly swallowed. Sherlock hung up the phone.

“Of course. The little girl’s out of the picture then.” She said.

“So it’s the man?”

“You remembered.” She said looking surprised, “Possibly. There’s another man it could be, though. They have Mrs. Nesbitt – the woman whose stocking drawer Mr. Mallory’s head was found in – on close watch. Hurry, John.” She said handing me my cell phone. “Call Lestrade. Tell her to check all flights to Shannon Airport for flights from India. This is vital.”

“Why did you hang up just so I could call her back?” I sighed dialing Lestrade, again.

“Because his voice is annoying. Yours is much more pleasant.” She said leaving to hail a cab.

“Lestrade, check all flights to Shannon Airport from India.” I said when he answered the phone.

“Hell, is this another of Sherlock’s hunches?” he asked.

“Yes, and we all know how those end.” I replied.

“Badly for someone. I’ll put Sally on it. Just … make sure she doesn’t go overboard?” Lestrade asked.

“No promises.” I said before hanging up.

“John! Did you get Lestrade?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, he’s on it.”

“Good. The cab’s waiting – we’re going to Mrs. Nesbitt’s.” She said. Without a word I hopped into the cab.

“You’re too complacent, John” She sighed as she ducked into the cab after me. “What if I’d snapped and hired the cabbie to kill you?”

“Then I’d kill the cabbie and kill you. Don’t forget that I was a soldier.” I said, military habits don’t disappear after you’ve left the service. Besides, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.

“John.” She said facing me, “We’re hunting a killer who carries a sword and collects eyes. Do try to not let your guard down.” She turned stiffly to look out the window. I looked out the window, seeing but not really seeing the landscape go by, as my hand drifted towards my gun.

We arrived at the house after a drive full of uncomfortable silence. Sherlock paid the cabbie as she was getting out. Which was strange, she usually left that to me. We went up to the house, which is surrounded by police officers. Sally Donovan met us with a sour look on her face.

“Hate saying this, but glad you’re here, freak. Stupid bird refuses to talk to anyone other than you, she’s driving Anderson up the wall.” She said, earning a glare from me. I don’t like it when she calls Sherlock a freak.

“Glad to see the Cardiff air has done nothing to your sunny disposition. Get out of my way.” Sherlock said with a smirk.

“Just get her to talk, and we can ignore each other again.” Sherlock stalked into the house, ignoring Donovan. I followed Sherlock into the house and we saw Mrs. Nesbitt sitting on her couch.

“Mrs. Nesbitt, how are you?” I asked. She looked at me, but focused on Sherlock.

“Please Mr. Holmes. I need your help.” She said.

“So I’ve gathered from the two headless bodies.” Mrs. Nesbitt winced.

“Sherlock.”

“Not good?” she asked looking at me.

“Not good.” I confirmed.

“Oh.” She said looking back to Mrs. Nesbitt.

“Are you her handler?” Mrs. Nesbitt asked me.

“No. I’m her – I write the blog.” I said, looking everywhere but at Sherlock.

“It’s okay, dear thing. He probably needs a handler from what I’ve heard on the telly.” She said with a warm smile. Sherlock cleared her throat and Mrs. Nesbitt turned to her, suddenly serious. “It’s my son. He’s hunting you.”

“What?” I spat, this was news to me.

“Yes, I thought so.” Sherlock said sounding unsurprised.

“No, you don’t understand -” Mrs. Nesbitt began.

“I rather think I do. He’s after my eyes.” Sherlock cut her off.

“Why is he after your eyes?” I asked ignoring the thought, 'they are beautiful.'

“Oh, I daresay they're an unusual enough color to have caught his attention. Pale green is not a common color here. Am I correct?” Sherlock said turning to Mrs. Nesbitt, who looked ashamed.

“He always like eyes as a child, and … well, with the passing of his father …” Mrs. Nesbitt said nodding.

“He snapped. I see. Strange, that he chose my eyes, and not John's.” Sherlock said.

“What?” I asked, I didn't think my eyes were anything special.

“Each set of hazel eyes is unique, and yours have a very interesting shade of brown in them. Almost wine-colored.” Sherlock said shaking her head. “That won't do. He can't be allowed to continue, or he might notice.” She turned to Mrs. Nesbitt “Do you have any idea where he would have gone?”

“We have family in Kilquade. Near Enniskerry? He's always trusted his cousin Gwynnedd more than I thought was healthy.” Mrs. Nesbitt said.

“Thank you. You have provided some much needed clarity.” Sherlock said as she stood and looked at me,

“Come, John. We have to get some rest tonight, or we'll be unable to work at full capacity tomorrow.” She said before leaving. I followed her in a stunned silence. “Donovan, I need a car.”

“Oh, no you don't. Last time you took my car I-” Donovan tried to protest.

“You already plan on going to bed with Anderson, save the complaining. Give me the keys.”Sherlock said testily.

“A single scratch, freak, and I'll-” She sighed handing over the keys.

“Save your threats for Anderson and his ridiculous sexual habits.” She said leading the way to the car. We got in and after a moment of silence Sherlock turned to me, “I apologize, John.”

“For what?” I asked snapping out of my stupor.

“Whatever I said earlier that has you on edge. Your hand hasn't left the butt of your gun since Mrs. Nesbitt began talking.” She said, her mouth quirked up a little.

“Oh.” I said moving my hand, which was indeed resting on my gun. “Sorry. Old habit.”

“I know. I don't know what I did to trigger it, however.” Sherlock said making a right turn. “I can handle this case alone, if you would prefer. It would not be too difficult.” Was she insane?

“No. Someone has to watch your back.” I said with a small grin.

“I appreciate the sentiment, John, but it should be fine. The one thing Scotland Yard are good for is performing the fine are of human shields.”

“You are not using Anderson as a human shield against a sword wielding murderer. Besides, I have better aim than Scotland Yard, remember?” I said running a hand through my short hair trying not to laugh at the image of Sherlock hiding behind Anderson.

She looked taken aback, then put out, and then slightly relieved before saying, “Good. Anderson has boring eyes, anyway. Plain muddy brown. Nothing like yours.” I pretended to ignore the eye comment and the fact that I really enjoyed it. We arrived at the hotel and are moved to another room by a terrified staff member, who apologized profusely. There were simply no doubles left that close to the holidays. We were moved to a room a floor above the new crime scene.

“Take the bed, John. I need to think.” Sherlock said flopping down on the small couch.

“You know you don't have to use the excuse 'I need to think.' Just use the bed. We need your brain in the morning. I'll take the couch.” I protested.

“No. You need to be able to aim properly. I'll be fine. Just sleep, John.” She said.

I sighed and purposefully laid down on only one side of the bed, “You have deduced that the bed can comfortably fit both of us by now, haven't you?”

“Of course. But it's also clear, from past statements you've made, that you would be uncomfortable with such an arrangement. That would hinder your sleep. Which is why I will be thinking, and possibly sleeping, over here.” She said shifting obnoxiously deeper into the cushions.

“No.”

“John. Don't be difficult. It's for the best.” She said.

“No.”

“John. Go to sleep. You look dead.” She reasoned.

“So do you.” I countered.

“You're not going to sleep until I join you.” She said after a pause.

“Nope” I answered even though it wasn't a question. Sherlock sighed, clearly irritated. She got up and laid very stiffly on the other side of the bed. The bed shifted with the weight, but it wasn't disturbing.

“Good night, Sherlock.” I said as I let sleep begin to carry me away.

“Good night, John.” I heard her say before I fully fell asleep.

 

“...John. John, wake up.” I was pulled from sleep by a familiar voice. Not wanting to get up I just grumbled incoherently into the pillow. “Joooohn. John,” She's poking my cheek, “We need to catch a plane in an hour and a half. Joooohn.” I groaned and sat up swatting her hand away.

“Ok, ok, I'm up.” I said rubbing the sleep from my eyes. It was then I had noticed that Sherlock and I had gravitated towards each other in the night. Not to the extent of cuddling but certainly closer than was necessary.

“Good. Get dressed. We need to hurry.” She said getting out of bed and moving swiftly about the room. I got out of bed, got dressed, and packed the bags quickly. We left the hotel in silence, I still wasn't completely awake.

“When we get to Bray, we need to find a Mr. O'Connoughly.” Sherlock said as we waited for a cab.

“And how will we do that?” I asked with a yawn.

“We'll go to the morgue, my dear Watson. He'll be dead by then – if he's not so already.” She said.

“Alright.” I said looking for any cabs heading our way.

“I expected a 'not good' for that, John.” she said as she hailed a cab. “Or at least a question. You have been nothing but quiet since before we left last night, your left sock is inside out, and you are avoiding speaking. John. What's going on? Will it affect the Work?” I glanced down at my socks and damn, she was right.

“I'm still not completely awake.” I said watching as a cab pulled in front of us.

“...Ah, I apologize, John.” She said getting into the cab, “This case is … strange.”

“You don't have to worry Sherlock. You'll solve the case and I'll have your back.” I stated bluntly. She looked taken aback as she nodded. We arrived at the airport without further conversation.

“Where's our gate?” I asked stepping out of the cab.

“14A. This way.” Sherlock lead the way to the gate and we boarded the plane with minimal trouble. We landed safely a short while later. “John. We're disembarking. You fell asleep. John?” Sherlock said trying to wake me up.

“Oh.” I said sitting up fully, “Alright, off we go.” Sherlock looked at me with a strange look before we disembarked.

“How, John. Bray is about thirty four km south of us. Catch us a cab – I need to make a call.” She said pulling out her cell phone.

“Alright.” I said stepping outside to catch a cab while keeping an eye on Sherlock, something was up.

“Take us to the corner of Sidmonton and Convent, Bray. Thank you, John.” She said as she walked over.

“Who did you call just now?” I asked.

“You'll see.” She said as she got into the cab.

“You know I don't like when you do that to me.” I said as I got into the cab.

“Well, I don't like it when you go silent for hours. It bodes badly for my peace of mind.” Sherlock said before repeating the address for the cabbie. “... if you must know, it was the chief of police here. He should be able to get us to both Gwynnedd Arbright and our deceased Mr. O'Connoughly.”

“Oh, sorry.” I said, feeling slightly ashamed that I had been suspicious of Sherlock.

“No matter.” Sherlock said before we settled into an uncomfortable silence until halfway into the ride. “Stay close to me when we get there.”

“Ok. What do you think is going to happen?” I asked.

Sherlock fiddled with her pocket for a moment. “Well, we are guaranteed to have another run in with our collector today. This Gwynnedd will definitely be hostile. And I daresay we're about to stumble on a crime scene. You will offer yourself no openings for anyone to attack. Am I clear?” She demanded. Was she really worried about me when she was the one constantly jumping into danger just to solve a case?

“Yes. But what about you?”

“I will be fine, John. This concerns you more at the moment. If he takes a look at your eyes, there's no guarantee that you will not join his list. You must remain unobtrusive. You must.”

“Alright Sherlock.” I sighed, if she asks me to be careful, that means she's planning something. Something that I most likely wont like.

“Good. Just – good.” She refused to speak for the rest of the drive.

“Sherlock, promise me you will be careful.” I said trying to calm my rising panic about what Sherlock could possibly be planning. But, she remains silent as the first streets of Bray pass by. “Sherlock.”

“Coming, John.” she said ignoring me as the cab comes to a stop.

“Sherlock answer me.” I demanded.

“John, I... the Work, John. The Work is most important.” she said before sweeping into a building.

“Sherlock!” I ran after her, but she was already inside and shaking hands with very round man.

“Pleasant to meet you at last.” she said to him.

“You have impeccable timing, Ms. Holmes. The Yard told me you'd be good.” He said.

“Yes. Now, where is the body?” She asked getting right to the point, as usual.

“Still at the house. A block over.” He said pointing in the general direction. “This your blogger?” He asked looking at me, “I keep up on it, you know. Brilliant writing.”

“Thank you.” I said him before whispering to Sherlock, “You have to promise.”

“We'll head over, then.” She said, ignoring me.

“Many thanks. Absolutely bewildered, even with the report from the Yard. Rogered if I know what to do with this.” Sherlock nodded and walked quickly towards the exit. I sighed and followed her.

“Why wont you answer me? What are you planning?” I asked when I caught up to her.

“It's not a matter of planning, John, so much as calculated preparation.” She said calmly.

“Then what have you calculated and prepared for?” I asked getting tired of playing into her games all of the time. “Please Sherlock.” She looked at me for a moment before talking.

“When I was … gone, you did not fare well. But I returned. If this goes according to our collector's plan, I will not do so this time. He is neither clever nor original, but he has brute force on his side, and an element of surprise. He may have been intelligent enough to warn me through his mother that I was his target – and then snatch you. That cannot happen. I did not … I – that is to say – my time away was not spent in the best of mental states, John. I have no desire to repeat that.” She glared at me. “So you must be prepared if the worst comes to pass. I could not warn you before. I can warn you now.”

“I will be fine. And so will you, Sherlock. I promise.” I said trying to sound as reassuring as possible. I must have been convincing because Sherlock was quiet for a moment.

“You are the only person I'd believe when they make such trite proclamations, John.” She said. She turned and walked down the street, clearly uncomfortable. I followed close behind Sherlock and kept alert, ready for anything.

The building was surrounded by police officers, and there was a distinct air of solemnity. People parted as if expecting Sherlock, though they gave me curious looks. I guess they did not expect me. One woman opened her mouth to say something, but Sherlock glared at her. Whatever words she had thought of died in her throat.

“Come along John.” She said ducking into the house past a burly man and his slightly slimmer partner. She paused, “Oh.”

The body was hacked to pieces, the head was split in half with the eyes cut out. The other officers left as Sherlock crouched beside the left leg. “He's furious. Something upset him – this is wrong.”

“What now? He's emotionally compromised. Who knows what he'll do?” I asked Sherlock as she surveyed the scene.

“This is all wrong. The head was cut off properly, but the anger? Was this even him?” She gestured to the body,

“Mr. O'Connoughly had two differently colored eyes – blue and green – and had been a childhood friend of our collector. Why did he rip him apart after?” She crouched down and examined the floor about a meter away from the head.

“Did they ever have a falling out? Maybe he was still angry about something?” I speculated, trying to find a reason why someone would so viciously murder one of their friends.

“No, they were merely acquaintances. This is – aha.” Sherlock pulled on a glove and picked up a long strand of black hair that had been trampled into the carpet.

“What have you found?”

“I believe we need to pay a visit to our collector's cousin, Gwynnedd” She said with a scowl, “Do you have a gun? One that can fire over distances, I mean.”

“Yes. In the luggage.” I don't tell Sherlock what I pack, but I have made it a habit to always bring at least one big gun on the cases we have to travel for. Luckily, I brought one with a scope for long distance shooting.

“Go get that. I'll meet you at 115 Riverton Avenue. Hurry, John.” she grasped my shoulder, “And be careful.Take an officer if you must.”

“You too. See you there.” I said before leaving the scene and taking an officer and their car back to our hotel.

At the hotel, I got my sniper rifle out of the luggage and double checked it. I've been with Sherlock long enough now to know when there is something off. I checked the phone book, “Damn it, Sherlock.” I muttered running out of the hotel. The officer drove me to 114 Carol Avenue. I left the officer to call for back up as I climbed up to the roof of the building.

 

Back at the crime scene where John left Sherlock, Sherlock stood up and left, heading to the address scowling. 'John,' she thinks, 'Forgive me.' The number next to the door is 115 Carol Avenue, four blocks away from the address she gave John. The door opened to show a ruffled young woman.

“Yeah, what do you want? Only I have a guest and-”

“I am well aware that you have a guest, Gwynnedd Arbright, and I am also aware that he is currently washing off blood in your kitchen. Can I come in?” Sherlock cut Gwynnedd off. She steps aside sputtering. Gwynnedd collects herself and opens her mouth to shout. “I wouldn't do that.” Sherlock said with a terrifying grin, “It's me he's looking for, after all.” She took a seat next to the window. “You may call him now.”

“I don't know who you are, but -” Gwynnedd looked terrified.

“I have a deal for him.” Sherlock says simply. Gwynnedd left the room and a tall man entered. He was wiping his arms off with a red-and-brown stained towel. He looked unsurprised to see Sherlock sitting there. He took a moment to look closely at her eyes and then nod.

“Well, it's not every day they walk into my hands.” He said.

“It's not every day they come to trade.” Sherlock countered, the man now looked thunderstruck, but slowly grins.

“Marcus, Marcus Nesbitt.” He introduced himself.

“Sherlock Holmes.” She took Marcus' hand to shake, but he drags her out of the seat, studying her eyes closely.

“Yes, these will do perfectly.” Marcus said as Gwynnedd returned to the room.

“Marcus...” she was visibly shaking.

“And will they be the last you take?” Sherlock asked. “Well?” Marcus just laughed, an ugly cruel sound.

“Two shades of blue, brown, two green, four hazel, and a red set from an albino child in Brazil. They're lovely, Ms. Holmes, but I don't plan on stopping.”

“Could I not persuade you?” Sherlock stared at him critically.

“Please, Marcus. This has to stop. I watched you kill that man – don't make me watch it again!” Gwynnedd cried tugging on Marcus' arm.

“Shut up! You wanted to know so I showed you.” Marcus shouted shooing Gwynnedd away, releasing Sherlock as he did so. “I just need you to understand-”

Sherlock backed up holding her hands high. She dropped one, keeping her left up in a 'stop' gesture, “I don't particularly care what happens to my eyes.” Marcus took a step closer, suddenly eager. “But I care what happens to my Watson.” She dropped her hand and dove out of the way.

 

Up on the roof of 114 Carol Avenue, I had set up the sniper rifle on the edge of the roof. I looked through the scope to see Sherlock sitting on the couch by the window. I watched as Sherlock talked with a girl, Gwynnedd. She left the room, “Sherlock you best know what you're doing.” I muttered. I watched as a tall man entered the room, he was wiping his arms off with a red-and-brown stained towel. He didn't look surprised to see Sherlock, and that's not good. I watched as the man, Marcus Nesbitt, talked with Sherlock. “What the hell are they talking about?” I muttered. Gwynnedd returned to the room and their movements seemed to be picking up tension. Sherlock backed away from Marcus with her hands raised. My finger was resting on the trigger, waiting for the first clear shot. Just as Sherlock dropped I took the shot, hitting Marcus in the head. I let out a breath as the body fell to the floor. I waited for Sherlock to emerge from the house, then I packed up the sniper and ran down to the street, “I'm gonna kill her.”


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We do not own any characters seen in the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle works or the Steven Moffat works (BBC)  
> This is a FemmeJohn and FemmeLock story.

Gwynnedd screamed as Marcus' body fells to the floor, a fresh bullet hole in his head. “You just _killed_ him!” She shouted diving at Sherlock, who hit her precisely on the bridge of her nose. Gwynnedd collapsed unconscious in a heap.

“Now to find John. She'll be angry.” Sherlock said with a sigh, “She's _always_ angry.” She flipped open her mobile, “Lestrade? Get the Garda to 115 Carol Avenue. Clean up.” She said walking out the door and looking up at the sound of running.

“Sherlock!” I shouted.

“John?”

“What were you thinking! What if I hadn't been here? What would have happened then?” I yelled at her.

“I would have shot him with the gun in my pocket. He meant to break my neck first, John, the claymore wasn't even near him. The evidence would have remained untainted.” She stated.

“Damn it, Sherlock. You can't keep doing this to me.” I yelled.

“Doing what? My Work? John, I must. The Work is the only thing I have.” she shook her head, “I can't apologize, but I can thank you. It would have been monumentally more difficult had you followed my original plan.” I remained silent, 'more difficult'? Was she insane? I just saved her life. The life that she constantly insists on putting in danger. “John … I-” She fiddles with her pockets, “I'm sorry, John. I felt it was necessary. Your silence is too effective on me. What if I need to keep a secret from you?”

“You should never need to keep anything secret from me, Sherlock.” I said feeling slightly numb.

“Yes, I do, like -” She fell silent, then roughly continued,”Thank you, John. Excellent shot. We should notify the authorities.”

“What were you about to say? Sherlock?” I asked snapping back to my usual personality.

“Nothing.” She set off down the street as a car screeched into sight with a manic Lestrade behind the wheel. Sherlock answered the questions mechanically and avoided my gaze.

“This conversation isn't over Sherlock.” I whispered to Sherlock while she answered Lestrade's questions. I may have imagined it, but I could've sworn I saw Sherlock _shudder_ after I said that. I kept quiet beside Sherlock and answered the questions that Lestrade asked me. Finally, Lestrade finished his questions and Sherlock left to call a cab.

“So other than throwing herself at the killer's feet, did she behave?” Lestrade asked me.

“Yeah.” I said before moving to stand with Sherlock, who nodded to Lestrade before turning to me.

“A few days are left. Where do you want to spend your Irish Christmas?” Sherlock asked.

“Let's go to Dublin. We could visit Malahide Castle.” I said running through what I knew about Ireland.

“Sounds perfect, John. If there are any other questions, Lestrade?”

“Did you … Did you two just arrange a romantic getaway _in front_ of me?” Lestrade asked with a rather large smile on his face. Sherlocks response was to glare at Lestrade.

“It's not – it's Christmas.” I tried to explain.

“Yeah, it is. For me, anyway – Sally owes me fifty quid.” Lestrade said with a laugh, making Sherlock glare harder.

“Think what you want Lestrade. Just be prepared for the post Christmas Anderson and Donovan.” I said trying to get Lestrade to leave us alone.

“You had to say that.” Lestrade sighed.

“Come along, John.” Sherlock smiled as a cab pulled up.

 

“So what were you about to say back there? What are you keeping secret form me?” I asked and watched Sherlock’s smile drop.

“Don't. John...Don't” She turned to look through the window.

“Sherlock … Sherlock. Please I need to know.” I took Sherlocks hand in mine.

“John …”

“Please Sherlock. I need to know.”

“I assure you it has no bearing on your safety or mine. Now I insist that you abandon this topic.” She said withdrawing her hand with a cold look. That is it, I have had it with Sherlock hiding things from me behind cold, logical masks.

“No Sherlock. This isn't about safety. This is about you and me.” I yell, startling Sherlock and probably the driver.

“John, stop. This is ridiculous.”

“No it's not Sherlock. Please.”

“And what does it matter?” Sherlock's voice raises, she's angry now, “It doesn't concern the Work, and it doesn't concern your safety! There is little else that matters, so in what way is this important, John? In _no_ way!”

“It's important to me.” I said in a small voice, shrinking away from Sherlock.

“John. John, I-” She freezes, looking tormented and then slaps her palm on the seat, “How do you _deal_ with it all the time? How can you stand it?!”

“What?” I had no idea where any of that came from.

“This _blasted_ SENTIMENT, John! How can you stand it? Emotions and their accursed ilk, they're de-prioritizing, they're a frustrating lack of logic!” She turned to me and her eyes have a trace of wildness about them. “The Work was easier without it, and it has been building – I _worry_ now, John, and I speak without thinking, and you-” she points accusingly to me. “- _you_ can hide something from me in your silence, but a word from you and it all comes spilling out from my mouth! What -” Her face is twisted in torment, “What is _happening_ to me, John?”

“Sherlock, you care?” I asked in shock of her sudden confession.

“Of course I _care,_ you unfathomable _idiot_. Is that what you call it? Caring? Pain when the other doesn't reciprocate enough to _relate_ why she's 'out of sorts'? Because, then _yes_ John, I care. And it's stupid, and interfering with the Work.” Oh, we are both such idiots, I reacted before I could think.

“You idiot. I used 'care' because I was afraid to use 'love'.” I slapped a hand over my mouth. I couldn't believe I had just said that. Sherlock looked absolutely _lost_.

“... What?” I think that was the the first time in her life she was genuinely speechless.

“Oh god.” my face was already bright red, “I can't believe I just said that.” I slumped forward trying to hide my bright red face.

“I … I …” Sherlock was still speechless. I rubbed my face, trying to get rid of some of the redness. “John …” she started to say, but we had arrived. Sherlock paid the cabbie and quickly stepped out of the cab. “Is that what is happening?” she shook her head, stepping away and turning cold again. “Never mind, John. This isn't – this- Mere and damnable sentiment, John. That's all.” Her phone rang, cutting off whatever I was going to say. While Sherlock spoke on the phone, and I let out a shaky breath I forgot I was holding.

“Yes. I'll be there soon.” Sherlock said into her phone as she hung up, her face softened when she looked at me, who was she talking to? “Just .. Check into a hotel, John. Make sure we have a double. I'll be back later.” She turned away, looking weary, and began walking down the street.

“Be careful.” I mumbled, watching Sherlock walk away. I found a hotel and booked a room with two beds. I took a long shower, trying to get rid of some of the tension in my muscles. I went to bed with the intent of sleeping for as long as possible, but I just couldn't sleep at all.

 

 

“Are you sure about this? I thought you had your romantic vacation all planned out.” Lestrade said as Sherlock sat down at the bar.

“Hardly, whatever you think it was. Lestrade …” she paused.

“I know. You don't know how to tell her about the group.”

“How would you?”

“I wouldn't. Need to know basis, and all.” Lestrade said as he took a sip of his beer.

“Thank you for your incredibly trite and unusually sound advice.” Sherlock spat, Lestrade rolled his eyes and drank some more beer.

“Whatever. Just go back to your girl, yeah?” Lestrade said. Sherlock flinched at Lestrade's word choice, but leaves the bar and heads to the hotel John booked a room in. “Those two are the most emotionally stunted …” He shook his head and finished his beer.

 

 

Sherlock slipped into the hotel room and saw John asleep in one of the beds. She climbed into the empty bed and tried to sleep.

John heard Sherlock come in, but pretended to be asleep so that Sherlock wouldn't worry over Johns insomnia.

Neither are aware that the other was awake.

 

 

I rolled out of bed with a groan, I couldn't sleep at all. I went to the bathroom to splash some water on my face and try to look somewhat rested for Sherlock. “How bout we get some breakfast?” I asked as I left the bathroom.

“Where would you like to go? I confess I haven't spent much time in Ireland.” Sherlock nodded.

“I asked the front desk when I checked us in last night. Oli's Coffee House is a couple blocks away. They said Oli's had a good breakfast menu.” I said rummaging through my bag looking for a jumper.

“Then lead the way, John.” Sherlock said. The walk to Oli's was silent and a little awkward. We were seated immediately, not a lot of people were up for breakfast yet. A waiter scurried over from the kitchen.

“Can I get you two anything?” the waiter asked.

“Tea please. And um, the number six meal.” I said with a quick look at the menu.

“Nothing for me, thank you.” Sherlock said, not even glancing at the menu.

“Sherlock. You have to eat something.” I wouldn't let her get away with not eating breakfast, not while we had spare time and no important case to solve.

“... Coffee. No milk, no sugar, dark as you have.”

“Thank you.” I said to the waiter, but it was meant for Sherlock. Sherlock looked outside with a blank face, save for a faint twitch of the lips that could, perhaps, be called a smile.

“Do we have plans today, John?” Sherlock said as the waiter ran off to the kitchen.

“Nothing solid but I was thinking of, maybe we could head over to Dublin and visit the national museum of archeology and history?” I suggested knowing that the museum would entertain Sherlock for at least a short amount of time. While I am fond of museums, Sherlock sees them as a chance to practice deducing on anything. More than once she's corrected the staff of the museum that they had the wrong artifact on display or laughed at an 'obviously' fake painting, and effectively getting us thrown out of the museum.

“That sounds . . . That sounds good, John.” Sherlock says with a full-blown grin as the waiter returns with our drinks, promising to return with our food soon. I sipped my tea, trying to hide my proud smile behind the tea cup and ignoring the little voice that told me I liked making Sherlock Holmes smile.

We sipped at our drinks while we waited for the waiter to return with my food. A short while later, the waiter returned and put down a plate full of food in front of me. The meal was quiet and a little awkward as I ate and Sherlock kind of just watched me as well as everyone else in the shop. I could see that she was thinking about something. She had the same look in her eye as when she's deducing, but it seemed different somehow. 'What could she be hiding from me? Where did she go last night? If she keeps secrets, will I be able to trust her?'' I thought while munching on my breakfast, 'Of course I will. She's Sherlock Holmes.'

“Are you just about finished, Johnny?” Sherlock asks setting down her coffee and pulling me out of my thoughts.

“Hmmm? Oh!” I looked down at my empty plate, “Yes. Um, yeah.” Sherlock smiled slightly at me as I regained a sense of where I was.

“Then lead the way to the museum, my dear- Watson.” There was a slight hesitation in the familiar phrase, as if Sherlock was uncertain of it. I ignored it, thinking that my imagination had gotten the better of me.

“Alright” I said as I paid the bill before we left to waive down a cab to head over to Dublin. During the drive I had noticed that Sherlock was still smiling faintly, but the pinched look was slowly returning to her face. “What's wrong Sherlock?”

“Hm? No, I'm fine. Thank you.” She said and somehow I didn't believe her.

“Well, alright. Just if you want to talk about something, you know that I'm always here for you, right?” I said giving her room to think about whatever it was that was bothering her.

“...Of course, Johnny.” She said looking at me with a dark gleam in her eyes. I gave her a small smile that was meant to be reassuring and looked out the window. She would reveal her thoughts in time and when she was ready, she always did.

“Sherlock. I- I want you to know that it's ok if you feel that you have to keep secrets from me.” I said, voicing my decision from breakfast.

“I'm well aware, Johnny. Where is this museum, precisely?” She asked without looking at me.

“Kildare Street, Dublin.” I said after pulling up the address on my phone.

“Describe it.” She demanded. With a small grin I handed her my phone with a picture of the museum displayed on it. “Johnny, that's cheating.” she said disapprovingly.

“It's a museum Sherly-Q. You'll know it when you see it.” I teased.

“Johnny, what have we said about that nickname?” She groaned, Sherlock hated when I use that nickname.

“You love it.” I said suppressing a small laugh.

“That is precisely the opposite of what we agreed about the nickname.” She replied. We bickered in good nature until we reached the museum.

“See Sherlock We're here. Now you know what it looks like.” I said as we stepped out of the cab.

Sherlock and I, surprisingly, weren't thrown out of the museum, probably because it was Christmas Eve. We spent most of the day looking at all of the exhibits. There were exhibits that showed the treasures of early medieval Ireland with connections with both pagan past and the wider Christian culture of the time. Most of the objects on display represented major landmarks in early European culture, or so Sherlock said. Sherlock didn't particularly like the Gold exhibit. I think it reminded her of Moriarty, when he 'stole' the Crown Jewels. Sherlock took great interest in the Ceramics and Glass from Ancient Cyprus exhibit. She studied the objects on display from every angle and distance she could manage without disrupting the display and getting us tossed around by museum security. It was a good day and I think that Sherlock enjoyed herself.

We got a cab back to our hotel and had Christmas Eve dinner in the restaurant on the first floor of the hotel. That night I tried my best to sleep peacefully, but I was plagued by the image of Sherlock beheaded and eyeless. A couple of times I woke with a start, hopefully I didn't wake Sherlock. Although I don't think that I did. Every time I looked over to her I could see the steady rise and fall of her chest.

The next day was Christmas, so Sherlock and I decided to walk around Bray and look at the shops and restaurants. We even picked up some holiday gifts for Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, and Molly. Sherlock refused to get Anderson and Donovan anything at all. We had Christmas dinner at a pub that seemed well visited. A lot of the customers had a 'usual' order. Sherlock showed off at darts and caught the eye of a few men who claimed to be experts at darts. When they displayed there impressive accuracy after having quite a few drinks, Sherlock demanded that I show the men how to aim correctly. Sherlock had also had a few drinks while we were there. She wasn't drunk, Sherlock can hold her drinks quite well, but she was in a demanding mood. I tried not to embarrass the men or ourselves, so I simply aimed for the bulls eye and didn't pull off any special tricks or anything. With the aid of the beer we had, Sherlock and I slept peacefully that night.

The day after Christmas, Sherlock and I took a plane back to England. Mrs. Hudson greeted us at the front door of 221 Baker Street with a fresh tray of cookies and a cheery 'Happy Holidays girls!'

Life for us went back to normal. Well, as normal as one can manage when living with Sherlock Holmes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information  
> http://femmejohn.tumblr.com  
> http://femmelock.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> For more information  
> http://femmejohn.tumblr.com  
> http://femmelock.tumblr.com


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